Autumn Turns to Winter in California–to my wife on the death of her father
Jim February 20th, 2010
As Autumn turns to winter in California
We walk among the piles of gathered leaves
that dwindle down to duff beneath the stark
And naked limbs, to spin in winds honed cold
And cutting numb. The shrill guests scythe the heart.
As so your fallen father lays beneath
This shifting cloak of gold and crimson hands
That dance forever and away, that flame
Like sparks that shiver through a night on fire.
He fell so silent, dreaming as he drifted.
A scent of smoke, a voice, drift on the air
We hear a song and know we’re not alone.
A Gardener turns the leaves that he has raked
And gathered in an ancient blazing furnace,
As if the crackling, painted leaves had fed
The flame-licked furnace with their fiery colors.
The Gardener sings of spring, of lithe,
Green, teeming buds on naked limbs, of foal
And mare, caressing rains that cleanse the sky.
He laughs, and while we listen, incandescent
Shafts shoot across the dawning east and light
The trail of smoke across the wakening sky.
To catch your father as he flies, like rakes.
We cannot understand his patient earth-
Creased hands that also plant the seedling. Let
Us walk away and leave the grave behind.
No bright leaf falls but that it does not grow
Again, nor grief be burned without the flames
Of joy.